


How Derek Got His Groove Back

by WhoNatural



Series: Howlnatural's Tumblr Fic [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Architect Derek, Blow Jobs, Closet Sex, College Graduate Stiles, Derek is new to the dating thing, Divorce, Lawyer Stiles, M/M, Mature Derek, New Beginnings, POV Derek Hale, Post-Divorce, Stiles knows exactly how to help him with that, Tumblr Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 03:34:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1842835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhoNatural/pseuds/WhoNatural
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cora kicks him under the table. “Do you have the hots for the baby lawyer?” she hisses urgently, and Derek blinks at her, feeling his face heat.</p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s young enough to be my--”</p><p>“Younger brother,” she cuts in, and shakes her head. “Age difference excuses do not fly with me. Are you gonna ask him out? Derek, you need to do something about that.”</p><p>“About what?” he says, frowning, watching as Stiles sits down at a table with a group of older, lawyer-types.</p><p>“The fact that you’re both about one drink away from sex in some janitor’s closet.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Derek Got His Groove Back

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notenoughgatorade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notenoughgatorade/gifts).



> Because it was Silvia's birthday, and she asked me once if I'd consider writing age difference fic.
> 
> Thank you for being you. :)

“So... The big four-zero,” Cora says, peering over the top of her menu. “Feel any different?”

Derek stares down at the appetisers intently, doesn’t make sense of a single word. “Thought we had agreed not to mention it.”

She sighs heavily and pulls down the booklet. “Yeah, because only you would think it’s perfectly reasonable not to mention your own birthday at your _birthday brunch._ Which is all you’re letting us do for you, by the way, even though I know for a fact that Laura had something planned with a hot air balloon.”

Derek narrows his eyes. “Laura locked herself in the cabin in Vermont for a week when she turned forty. What makes her think I’d want to celebrate mine?”

“I think she’s just happy not to be the only one who’s officially of cougar-age anymore.”

“I’m not a-- Has she been saying that?”

Cora tears off a piece of bread and chews it, shrugging. “Not in any actual words.”

“So not at all, then.” He shuffles the menu, turns the page with more force than is necessary. “Brunch is enough.”

“You’re so lame,” she says, rolling her eyes, and Derek wonders if she’ll ever stop sounding like a pre-teen to him, not someone with a Masters degree who shapes younger minds for the future. “Don’t you feel like celebrating? Letting loose? Getting _down_?”

“What’s to celebrate, exactly?” Derek asks, bristling, and looks around to keep his voice level. “I’m forty years old, separated at thirty-eight from my college sweetheart - who turned out to be a raging psycho, by the way -  and will probably have to pay alimony to her for the rest of my life. This is despite the fact that she cheated on me and somehow sneaked a loophole into our pre-nup and I was so in love with her I didn’t even see it. I had to move out of the apartment _I_ designed to a place on the other side of town from where I work. She wants my fucking _dog_ _,_ and now I’m forty, and alone, and I haven’t dated anyone fifteen years, and everyone’s talking about Tinder and Grindr and I’m not even sure I want to meet someone, but if I did, it sure as fuck wouldn’t be through something that uses autocorrect. The firm is the only thing I have going on in my life, and for the first time in years, business is slow because nobody wants to build _anything_ in this climate, so I can’t even throw myself into that."

He lets out a breath, oddly lighter for having ranted, and sets down the now-crumpled menu. “So no, don’t really feel like making a fuss, if you don’t mind.”

Cora chews a little more, swallows, and doesn’t blink. “George Clooney is like fifty. He does okay.”

Derek lets out a calming breath, reminding himself that the last place he should have looked for sympathy is one of his loving sisters.

“That’s--”

“Mr Hale?” a voice cuts in, and both their heads turn.

Derek’s chest stutters. It’s the kid from the law firm which is handling his divorce. _Stilinski_ _,_ Whittemore called him.

He can’t be any older than twenty-five - younger than _Cora_ \- is a junior partner, and wears a constant smirk on his perfect lips, like he knows just how fucking attractive he is. He studies Derek like he’s privy to a huge secret - like he knows just by looking, that Derek is dying to know what he’s like under his smart tailored suits, pristine hair all mussed up and sweaty. It’s like his core body temperature increases several degrees in the guy’s presence.

Derek hasn’t been with a man since college, but he’s always had a type. This kid, with his pale skin and beauty marks and doe-eyes, is it, and more.

“Sorry to intrude, I just noticed you here on the way back from the restroom.” He glances at Cora, and back at Derek curiously. “Thought I’d say hi.”

Derek realises the lull in conversation is his cue to speak, and licks his dry lips. Stilinski is in a button-down vest today. His shoulders are _ridiculous._

“Uh, no, not at all. Just having brunch with my sister.” Stilinski’s brows rise as he says it, and he turns to her, interested. “This is Cora, the baby of the family.”

“Nice to meet you,” he says, holding out a hand for her to shake. “I’m Stiles. I work at your brother’s law firm.”

 _Stiles_ , Derek thinks, and wonders how it sounds like some kind of jockish nickname, yet it doesn’t make him any less attractive.

Cora’s eyes narrow. _“Do_ you now? Any chance you could swing it so he doesn’t have to pay through the nose to a cheating bitch the rest of his life?”

Stiles laughs nervously, rubbing at the short hairs at the back of his neck. His arms are far more defined out of his suit-jacket than Derek ever needed to know, and he takes a long draught of his wine, wishing it was a shittier quality so the acidic burn would be enough to distract him.

"I'm afraid I’m not handling his case, but I’ll be sure to remind Jack about it.” He turns to Derek again, eyes tracking over the front of his sweater, the stubble on his jaw. “Not working today?”

Derek shakes his head, clearing his throat. “Took a personal day.”

“It’s his birthday,” Cora betrays, tracing the rim of her water glass. “He managed to step away from his firm long enough to come here with his sister and bitch about turning forty.”

Derek regrets everything about this day. Instead of looking discouraged by the fact he now knows for certain that someone _fifteen years his senior_ has all but been undressing him with his eyes for the past month, Stiles straightens up, raising a brow.

“Forty,” he says, “Really?”

Derek doesn’t really know what to do with his hands, so holds them palm-up.

“Huh. _Like a fine wine_ ,” Stiles mutters, just loud enough for Derek to hear, and Cora looks like someone just handed her the keys to their father’s classic Mustang she’s been hinting about inheriting.

“Like... what?” Derek asks, confused, and Stiles does that smirk again, taking a step backwards.

“I’d better get back. Supposed to be here sitting in on a working-brunch.” He turns to Cora. “Great to meet you, miss,” and to Derek he says, “Happy Birthday, Mr Hale.”

“Derek,” he corrects absently, watching those distracting hands disappear into his pockets. His suit pants are tailored and unfair.

 _“Derek_ _,_ ” Stiles says with a nod, the word sounding obscene. With that, he’s gone.

Cora kicks him under the table. “Do you have the hots for the baby lawyer?” she hisses urgently, and Derek blinks at her, feeling his face heat.

“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s young enough to be my--”

“Younger brother,” she cuts in, and shakes her head. “Age difference excuses do not fly with me. Are you gonna ask him out? Derek, you need to do something about that.”

“About what?” he says, frowning, watching as Stiles sits down at a table with a group of older, lawyer-types.

“The fact that you’re both about one drink away from sex in some janitor’s closet.”

“That is _not-_ \- Cora, he’s just being friendly.”

“Yeah, he wants to get real _friendly_ , alright,” she mutters, and looks at him pleadingly. “Please, Derek? I wasn’t old enough to appreciate you dating cute guys before Jen and he’s, like--”

_Porn personified._

“--the perfect rebound screw. Young, hot, has a good job so he’s not gold-digging, probably knows all those sexy tricks to help you get rid of all that stress...”

Derek needs this conversation to end, like yesterday, because he refuses to pop a boner while his baby sister talks. He will not.

“Cora,” he interrupts, firm and serious. “No. The guy’s younger than you are, and he’s just good at his job. If I see a client in public, I say hello to them. It’s good business etiquette.”

She opens her mouth to speak just as the waiter appears, and Derek says, “And that’s all I’m saying about this.” He looks up and hesitates, noticing the guy is carrying a tray.  “We didn’t order any more wine.”

“Yes, sir, but the Whittemore & Martin table sent these over with their regards.” He leans in. “Happy Birthday.”

Cora sips her new glass with a look of barely-restrained glee, and Derek raises his, willing himself not to blush, catching Stiles’ eye across the room.

“Good business, huh?” she comments, and Derek snaps back, frowns, and glares down at the menu once again.

“I’m tipping them 100 bucks to put mushrooms in anything you order,” he says, and she kicks him in the shin.

Mature.

  


____

 

Derek grunts under the splash of cold water on his face, clenching his teeth so hard he hears them creak.

He stares at his reflection in the smudge-free mirror and  wonders what exactly he did to Jen to make her hate him so much.

They’d gotten together in their junior year; she was a sweet, sexy English major whom his parents adored and she came from the right family, and he’d been done with fucking around, ready to find someone who wanted the same things he did, wanted to travel a little after graduation before coming back to the city and settling down close to home.

They’d been married within three years, a quiet affair on a beach in St Thomas, and he’d secured his first major client by their second anniversary.

Derek was smitten. He’d been happy, and thought she was too, but it’s like since they separated he’d found out he’d been living with a stranger all those years - someone secretly resenting him for tying her down, even though Derek thinks he would have given it all up in a second if she’d only asked.

That’s the trouble with love - it blindsides you, makes you a fool and leaves you with nothing but memories tainted by hindsight and you find yourself right back where you started. Alone.

He straightens up as the door opens, patting down his face with a paper towel. The steps stutter as he pulls the sheet away, only to see Stiles, eyes wide and pleased, before a look of concern washes over his features.

“Derek, hey,” he greets, shoulders relaxing. “I didn’t realise you were coming in today.”

“Mediation,” he grunts, screwing up the sheet and aiming for the trash. The fact he gets it in does little to lift his mood.

Stiles’ face crinkles. Even _that’_ s attractive. “Guessing it didn’t go well?”

“She’s taking the fucking _dog_ ,” he complains, scowling. “She didn’t even want her when I adopted her. Now she’s keeping her, just to spite me.”

Stiles winces. “Sorry, man. That-- that blows.”

Derek raises a brow, “That your professional opinion?”

“That’s the dog-lover’s opinion,” Stiles clarifies. “I’d kill someone before they took Woof away.”

“Your dog’s name is _Woof_?”

The guys’ bottom lip dips on one side sheepishly. “I was an interesting kid. I thought all animals worked like Pokemon, where they could only say their own name.”

Derek smirks, before realising he only gets the reference because of Cora getting suspended in elementary school for beating someone up for a Charizard card.

Stiles is _young_.

“I guess I see the logic,” he says, straightening up, sighing. “Sorry, I'll get out of your way. I should be getting back to my own office, anyway.”

The guy nods. “Yeah, sure, I’m sure you have a lot of-- what is it you actually do?” he says suddenly, huffing out a nervous laugh. “I realised I never asked.”

“Architect,” Derek supplies, rolling down his sleeves.

“Hale and Reyes,” Stiles deduces. “Of course. You guys designed that awful monstrosity on Monroe...” His eyes widen. “Shit, I uh, I mean--”

Derek laughs, can’t help himself. It’s strange to see this Stiles; not so put together, stumbling a little over his words. It’s endearing.

“No it’s fine - Gerber were a nightmare client. Totally unrealistic ideas. I’m not particularly proud of that one.”

Stiles sighs, scratches at his jaw. There’s a barely-there shadow of stubble that Derek aches to run his fingertips over. The kid is beautiful. It’s even more unbearable up close.

“Good, I mean... not for you, obviously, but good that--” he lets out a breath. “Look, can we chalk this up to my lack of coffee today?”

Derek nods, turning for the door. “Already forgot it ever happened.”

“Wouldn’t want to go that far,” Stiles says, catching his eye in the mirror before the door closes, and Derek wonders how this kid can slip from endearingly awkward to life-alteringly sexy; so hot that Derek needs to loosen his own tie from the thrum in his veins, in a matter of seconds.

He has no idea, but knows he’s in trouble when he’s calculating how many days it is until he has to come back to the law firm.

___

 

“Mr Hale, so glad you could make it. May my assistant take your jacket?”

Lydia Martin is the city’s fiercest closer, graduating early from Harvard and making senior partner by the tender age of twenty-eight.

Derek nods, handing over the garment with a cursory look around the room.

He hasn’t been back to the firm in a few months, now, not since finalising the divorce. He’d gotten the invitation to Whittemore & Martin’s annual mixer almost a month ago, and spent an embarrassing amount of time thinking about it.

He’d seen Stiles several times since that first encounter in the bathroom; mostly when he was leaving after a meeting with Jack, and once in the Starbucks attached to the building. He’d been charming and flirtatious, leaving Derek in a confused limbo of helpless attraction and guilt when he’d watched the guy dump a packet of Splenda over the table and draw smiley-faces in it. Stiles was a paradox; professional, intelligent, competitive one moment, shy and playful and excitable the next. Derek was gone the moment he’d distractedly sucked whipped cream off a long index finger, completely and infuriatingly unaware of the picture he made.

Apparently, the guy was Lydia’s pet project, or so he’d deduced. She’d scouted him from a pool of graduates barely younger than herself, and it had reportedly been major news in legal circles. Martin doesn’t deign anyone good enough to work directly under her.

Derek had spent a week wondering if Stiles’ intelligence was the sole reason she’d picked him, or if something more had been going on between them; an observation that hadn’t exactly been confirmed or denied.

“Thanks for inviting me. I hope you’re having a nice evening,” he says politely, dislodging snow from his hair.

“I will, so long as my Junior doesn’t shank someone over the oeur d’euvres,” she comments, glancing around. “You’ve met Stiles, right?” Her eyes are piercing and knowing, and he gets the feeling she doesn’t need him to answer.

“A few times,” he says honestly, searching the room for him once again. He can’t even pretend that’s not what he’s doing.

“He’s responsible for all of this,” she says, pride thinly masked in her voice. “Be sure to compliment him if you find him.” With that, he eyes land on someone behind Derek, just arriving, and she glides forward, already done with the conversation.

Derek hovers a little after that, getting pulled into one conversation or another, and thanking Jack once more for getting his dog back; he’d still had to settle for alimony, but nowhere near what Jen had originally asked for.

The months following the divorce had been good; business, while not great, wasn’t floundering anymore. He’d rediscovered kickboxing and various little things that married life had taken from him.

He’d declined to date; nobody had quite captured his interest, or his curiosity. He’d say he wasn’t ready, but...

He sees Stiles about twenty minutes in. He’s in a fitted tux and looks _edible,_ face open and bright as he mingles with the high-class guests. Derek thinks about calling him over, or even approaching him, but there doesn’t seem to ever be a good opportunity. Stiles has command of the room, talking to lawyers and clients with a sexy kind of confidence, like he’ll own it all some day.

Derek isn’t sure whether he’s intimidated or aroused, and which feeling is keeping him to the sidelines, getting caught up in boring conversation with boring people.

He’s not even sure Stiles has noticed him, and wonders when he regressed to middle school, pining after the beautiful boy who isn’t even thinking about him.

It’s when he steps out for some air on one of the balconies that the sound of music ebbs and fades, a sign the door has been opened, and there’s a delicious heat at his back. A champagne flute appears in front of him. and Derek takes it, turns, to find Stiles poised for cheers.

The moonlight does devastating things to his skin, his eyes, and maybe that middle school thing was right, because Derek is nervous and excited and feels like he’s never done this before.

“Great party,” he says, because he can’t remember how to flirt, not when Stiles’ long fingers are cradling the stem of the glass so delicately. He meets the guy’s eyes to see them staring back at him, a hint of humour in their gaze and a smirk on his lips.

“Thank you,” he says. “Lots of important people to impress.” It’s said with such meaning that Derek takes a sip of the fizz just to have something to do.

“Consider me impressed, then.”

“You haven’t been back here in a while,” Stiles says, a little crease appearing on his brow. It’s close to a pout, except Stiles is much too sophisticated for that.

“Divorce finalised,” he says, eyes roaming over Stiles’ face. “No excuse.”

“Oh yeah? Were you... looking for excuses?” He licks his lips, and Derek can do nothing but track the movement.

“Might have been,” he says. “Feels like I had unfinished business.”

Stiles looks delighted by that, eyes resting on Derek's mouth. “Maybe you did. And you’re not in the middle of a case, any more, so...”

“So?”

“It’s not completely unprofessional to tell you I’ve been thinking about you naked since the moment we met.”

The air leaves Derek’s lungs, and he looks down, not sure what to say, how to react, now that Stiles has laid it out on the table. Sure, it'd been hinted, strongly  _implied,_ but to actually say it, just like that, like he's got nothing to lose? Derek's heart is pounding.

There’s a quiet snort, and he looks up, finding Stiles stepping into his space, smiling fondly.

“It’s like nobody’s ever told you how sexy you are before.”

Derek’s brows jerk, stomach flipping. “Not for a long time.”

“How long,” Stiles says, cocking his head. “Months?”

He thinks about the last time he had sex with Jen, the last time she initiated it just _because_ or the last time it felt like it meant something that wasn’t pure obligation. He swallows.

“Years.”

“Fuck,” Stiles breathes out, and the swear sounds far too arousing on his lips.

“And... since someone kissed you?” he asks, voice low, leaning closer. His eyelashes are dark against his cheek and Derek doesn’t dare breathe.

“Too long,” he says, and it comes out in a whoosh against Stiles’ lips, before they’re pressing them together, nipping and biting and breathing each other in. Stiles' body is a hard, long, line against his chest; all firm sinew and solid breadth. He tastes like champagne and chocolate, and it has been too long, because Derek is sinking beneath the tide of him, not wanting to come back for air. But he must, because for every reason this should happen, his brain supplies two where it shouldn’t. One, weighing heavier than the rest.

“I-- can’t,” he says, breath coming short, and he groans at the tug of Stiles’ hands through his hair, the press of warm, wet lips on his jaw, the chill of his nose bumping his cheekbone.

“ _Why,_ ” he asks distractedly, working his fingers beneath Derek’s collar.

“You’re--” he swallows, leaning into the touches despite himself. “You’re so _young_ and I’m--”

“I know exactly what I’m doing, Derek,” Stiles tells him, like it’s a secret, just for him. He leans back, slips his fingers into Derek’s and tugs, pulling him inside and down a quiet hall and into a dark, tiny, room.

Stiles kisses him like he’s _starving_ for it, and Derek gets pulled along for the ride, not able to pull away, not able to bring himself to say stop, not able to leave the room.

“We-- It’s been a long time, and I’m-- and you’re barely out of--”

“Am I too young to do this?” Stiles asks, fingers finding his zipper, slipping inside. Derek’s already so hard he’s _aching_ , and he thrusts into the grip absently. “You could keep talking, Derek. Come up with a thousand excuses why this shouldn’t happen - but I’ve seen the way you look at me. It makes me... _hot_. I wanna--” he lets out a breath, like he’s so turned-on he can’t even get air. “Fuck, I wanna treat you good. Make you _feel_ good. You’re so... when you _smile_ it’s like--”

Derek groans helplessly into a kiss, pulling him closer, cupping his ass through his pants and lets himself feel wanted, by someone so beautiful and confident and commanding; finds he _craves_ it. Stiles is firm in all the best ways, flawless and smooth and _filthy_. Derek can’t think of any of the reasons he had not to do this, not a single one.

“So you can make your excuses,” Stiles continues, peppering hot little kisses over his face, breath on his ear. “Or you can shut the fuck up, and let me get your dick in my mouth.” Derek _throbs_ at the words, sucking in a breath. “Because I have a suspicion, that nobody’s sucked you off really good in a long, _long_ \--” he jerks his hand to punctuate, “--time. And me? I’m kinda good at that. _Exceptionally_ good.”

Derek lets out a breath, and nods, not even letting himself think, not letting himself ruin this, because the object of every guilty fantasy of the last six months is sinking to his knees, softly dunting his balls with his nose like a greeting, and giving sweet little cursory sucks to the head of his dick.

Stiles moans at the taste like _he’s_ the one getting head; like he’s so turned-on that he can’t keep quiet, and the moment his perfect heat envelops Derek, he’s right there with him, biting down a gasp and letting his eyes slip shut.

He can’t see Stiles, not in the dark, and he mourns the loss of the sight of him,  eyes looking up like he’s drunk on it, lips red and sticky, cock straining his pants.

He does this.. this _thing_ with his tongue that clenches every muscle in Derek’s stomach, popping off to just _breathe_ over him, hot and wet and perfect.

Derek’s thrusting now, just shallow little movements he can’t control, and Stiles is pulling his hand to his hair, opening his own fly, pulling himself out.

The thought of him getting himself off is enough to push Derek over the edge, and he’s coming, shocking and forceful and uninhibited, right on those sinful lips.

Stiles is still working himself and Derek tugs him up gently, turning him, and takes over; hand snaking around him from behind, lips on the salt-taste at the back of his neck, coaxing him until he comes.

They stand in the dark for a long moment; muscles spent, catching their breaths, and then Stiles is reaching back for him, cupping his neck for a kiss that almost makes his knees give out.

“I-- _mmph-_ \- I’ve been waiting a long time to do that,” he confesses, chasing Derek’s lips like he can’t get enough of them. “Come home with me. _Please_. I need to, like, do that again. Repeatedly.” He kisses Derek once more, beseeching. “Say you’ll--”

“Yeah,” Derek says, returning a kiss. “Yeah, I’ll-- come on.” His legs feel weak and he’s pretty sure he has come on his pants, but he’s so fucked over this guy that he can’t bring himself to care - not when the thought of waking up next to him, frost on the window, lazy morning in bed, if Stiles will have him, is the most tempting thought he thinks he’s ever had.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, fastening himself up. “I’m gonna fuck you in my bed, and again in the morning and-- _fuck_ , come on before I say something embarrassing.”

He opens the door, checks the coast is clear, and Derek steps into the light, unable to take his eyes off Stiles, flushed and rumpled and gorgeous.

“You should keep talking. All the time,” Derek blurts, and finds himself smiling rather than regretting it. He leans in to lay a chaste kiss by his jaw, and Stiles smiles so bright he stumbles, shoving the door closed.

Derek looks back at it, hesitates, drawing Stiles’ attention.

“What’s... Derek?” he asks, face carefully controlled.

“Did we just-- is that a janitor’s closet?”

Stiles smirks then, proud and unashamed. “It was private. Why?”

Derek shakes his head, grabs Stiles’ hand, and turns away. “Nothing, just... something my sister said.” There's a frown contorting his features, and Derek takes a step. “Come on, lets get a cab before we have to go back in.”

Stiles falls into pace beside him, and overtakes, hammering the button of the elevator. Derek raises a brow, taking his offered jacket, conveniently stashed close-by. _Extremely_ conveniently.

Stiles simply shrugs. “What? I told you. _Months_ _._ ”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I am [howlnatural](http://howlnatural.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.


End file.
